Getting Even: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  Castellini had been arrested and the prosecution had requested he be remanded without bail. The defense had argued incarcerating their client pending trial would prevent him from running his business, unjustly jeopardizing his livelihood and putting his financial future at risk. Following a barrage of arguments from both sides, the judge had rendered his decision – bail of five hundred thousand dollars, house arrest in his West Island condo with the permission to travel to and from his plant in off-island Vaudreuil weekdays according to a set schedule with a GPS ankle monitor thrown in for good measure.

  A trial date had been set for November 30, 2015, and the months in the interim had gone by with Castellini strictly adhering to the rules dictated by the court and Aalto being moved from one location to the next to ensure his safety. On August 28, 2015, one such transfer had taken place and Aalto, accompanied by an assigned guard, had settled into a small, riverside house in eastern Montreal which had served as a summer home in a previous life. Near midnight the following day, ironically on the first year anniversary of the steakhouse massacre, a massive explosion had turned the safe house into a raging bonfire, ending the lives of its two occupants.

  Once again, Castellini was believed to be responsible but investigators had failed to find the slightest shred of evidence to support the allegation. The defense had filed a motion for dismissal, stating there was no case without Aalto’s testimony. While the prosecution had argued, stating its intent to use the witness’s video confession and statements as evidence for the trial, Castellini’s lawyers had countered on the basis that the inability to cross-examine the witness would put them at a grave disadvantage.

  While the court had yet to render a decision on the matter, all parties involved expected the ruling would be in the defendant’s favour. Barring a miracle or some intervening force, Castellini would soon be free. Unfortunately for the gang leader, Discreet Activities specialized in such interventions and he was in its sights.

  Over the last month, the team had been hard at work, collecting and analyzing everything they could find concerning Castellini – his past, business, personal records, colleagues, home, security – no page had been left unturned. Key players had been identified and investigated, their activities and routines determined. Complete blueprints of the building where Castellini lived had been obtained as had security design specifications and plans. Ownership of occupied units had been determined and select units which remained available had been visited by potential ‘buyers’. Most importantly, Castellini’s video surveillance system had been accessed and would provide the team with valuable visual data.

  With any Discreet Activity operation, the objectives were successful completion and risk minimization for the team members involved. To this end, meticulous plans were developed and included alternatives in case of contingencies, even for the most simple and straightforward missions. In this line of business, ‘better safe than sorry’ was taken literally.

  As hoped and expected, Castellini and O’Reilly had arrived a few minutes earlier. From a nine floor unit acquired through a short-term rental agency, Jonathan had watched the surveillance camera images showing the Lincoln Navigator turning into the front lot then entering the underground parking shortly after. After escorting his boss to the eighth floor unit, O’Reilly had proceeded to the tenth floor and entered the penthouse unit to perform his daily sweep of his boss’ home.

  “You’re on, Leslie,” said Jonathan as he watched O’Reilly reappear on the screen, closing the door behind him before stepping to the elevator.

  Wasting no time, Leslie hurried out onto the terrace with a coil of black nylon climbing rope, a rubber-coated grappling hook attached to its end. With a practiced swing, she tossed the hook upward, successfully snagging it onto the railing of Castellini’s terrace above. An experienced climber, she quickly hoisted herself up and was busy working the lock of the French doors in seconds.

  “Status, Les,” came Jonathan’s demand through her earpiece. “Dino and O’Reilly are heading to the elevator on the eighth floor.”

  “I’m in,” Leslie murmured, closing the door before taking in the layout, mentally matching it with the blueprints she had studied.

  “Good,” Jonathan replied. “I’ll let you know when he gets there, hopefully alone.”

  “Four guys just arrived down here,” Dave’s voice announced from the outside parking lot. “I recognize two of them for sure. They’re on their way in.”

  “Crap,” Jonathan muttered as he watched the four men enter the lobby on the multi-split screen. “Leslie, Dino is out of the elevator and he’s alone. O’Reilly is still on the eighth floor.”

  “It’s all good,” Leslie replied. “I’ll just need a few seconds once he’s in here.”

  From where she crouched by the kitchen island, Leslie could see the reflection of the main entrance in the wall of glass which ran the length of the living room. She heard and saw the door open and Dino Castellini entered his home.

  “Our four newcomers are at the eighth floor unit,” Jonathan announced as Leslie watched Castellini close and lock the door then remove his leather jacket to hang it on a coat tree before moving toward the vast, open-air living area.

  “Stop where you are and raise your hands in the air,” Leslie ordered as she stepped into view, her Glock 26, complete with sound suppressor, trained on him.

  Castellini did what he was told then smiled as his mobile trilled.

  “Should I answer that?” he asked. “You’re screwed whether I do or not.”

  “Don’t bother,” Leslie replied before double-tapping him in the forehead.

  She stepped closer as he fell, shooting him twice more in the chest and once in the temple.

  “Leslie, move,” Jonathan urged. “They’re on their way up in a hurry.”

  “I’m coming down now,” Leslie replied, rushing out onto the terrace.

  She retrieved the grappling hook, shoving a prong into her waistband, before scrambling over the railing and swinging herself down onto the balcony below where Jonathan waited. From above, shouts were heard as O’Reilly and his colleagues entered the penthouse and spotted Castellini’s body.

  “Go to Chris,” Jonathan ordered, taking the hook from her and securing it to the railing.

  “I’m waiting for you,” Chris’ voice sounded in their earpieces.

  Nodding, Leslie tossed the coil of rope down, well aware its length was more than she needed, then slipped over the railing and rappelled ninety feet to the ground below.

  “I’m down,” she announced when her feet touched the manicured lawn fifteen seconds later.

  Jonathan unclipped the rope from the hook and let it drop as he murmured, “Get out of here.”

  “You too,” Leslie replied, quickly coiling then stuffing the rope into the small backpack she wore before bounding into the darkness toward the river where Chris waited with the boat.

  * * * *

  “He’s fucking dead, Johnny,” Pauly, one of the gang members, exclaimed as he crouched by Castellini’s body.

  “Yeah, the bullet holes in his head tipped me off,” O’Reilly snapped as he called his man in the eighth floor unit. “Anything on the cameras?”

  “Nothing. I checked from the time you left the penthouse to when Dino got there and there was nobody.”

  “Somebody got in from the terrace,” O’Reilly replied. “The door was locked when I came up here and now it isn’t. Did you see anyone leave the building since?”

  “Not so far. Jimmy and Vince have the garage entrance and the front door covered now. We’ll get whoever did this.”

  “I don’t know about that,” O’Reilly disagreed. “If whoever did this got to the terrace up here, he can probably disappear easy enough. I’m gonna send Pauly down to check around the building outside. Me and Rick will check this place to make sure it’s clean and then I think we’d better call the cops in.”

  * * * *

  Slinging his computer bag onto his back, Jonathan
briefly examined himself in the mirrored closet door to ensure his disguise remained intact. A grey, shaggy wig under a weathered ball cap, make-up and a four day growth of natural, silvery stubble aged him some fifteen years. A brushed steel walking stick and a slight shuffled walk further enhanced the illusion.

  “I’m coming down, Dave,” he announced as he left the rented unit and headed to the elevator on the ninth floor. “Anything special I should be aware of?”

  “Just the one goon hanging around in the lobby,” Dave replied. “Want me to get closer in case he hassles you?”

  “Why would he hassle an old man?” asked Jonathan. “Just be ready to get us out of here. I’ll handle him if he annoys me.”

  He punched the elevator call button and mere seconds passed before the doors slid open to reveal Paul ‘Pauly’ Thibault, one of Castellini’s men whom Jonathan recognized from their research. He stepped inside, ignoring the biker as the elevator resumed its descent.

  “You live here, Pops?” Pauly demanded.

  “None of your damned business,” Jonathan rasped, staying in character.

  Without hesitation, Pauly grabbed Jonathan’s arm, spinning him sideways before pinning him against the wall with a hand on each shoulder.

  “I asked you a question, old man,” he growled.

  In response, Jonathan jabbed upward with the steel cane, smashing its sturdy handle into Pauly’s chin before swinging it back down for a solid blow to the head. As the thug’s eyes glazed and he began to double over, Jonathan swung the cane behind his attacker’s head with a two-handed grip and yanked him down into a painful face-to-knee collision.

  “I had answered your question, asshole,” Jonathan muttered to the limp form on the floor as the doors slid open at the lobby level.

  Pushing Pauly’s foot over to obstruct the door and keep it from closing, he then left the elevator and quickly hobbled the length of the corridor leading to the lobby where another goon, Vince, stood by the entrance, watching his approach.

  “Are you a friend of Pauly’s?” Jonathan croaked in a panicked voice as he hobbled up to the man.

  “What of it?” Vince demanded with a scowl.

  “I got in the elevator and he was in there, lying on the floor,” Jonathan blurted. “He’s sick or hurt or something. He said to get Vince. Is that you?”

  Vince’s glowering expression turned to one of concern. “He’s in the elevator right now?”

  “Yes,” Jonathan insisted. “He said, ‘I’m Pauly. Get Vince in the lobby.’ Then I think he fainted.”

  Without another word, Vince took off at a run toward the elevator while Jonathan did likewise, in the opposite direction through the door and outside. He sprinted down the walkway, reaching the curb just as Dave pulled up and seconds later, they were gone with another successful mission under their belts and one less criminal to sully the world.

  * * * *

  AutoRoute 40 westbound near Hudson, Quebec, 9:22 p.m.

  William’s day had been a long and strange one though he now believed his tenacity would indeed pay off. With Le 1000 as a common ground for the three targets he needed more information on, he had been there early, strolling near the underground parking entrance in hopes of catching a glimpse of any or all of their vehicles and license plates.

  While Chris Barry and the one he knew as Bob had been no-shows, he had been rewarded late in the morning when Dave McCall had arrived driving a dark blue Range Rover. With some luck on his side, William had managed to find a slot near McCall’s to park the Tahoe he had rented under an assumed identity.

  Several hours of bored waiting had followed until McCall had shown up late in the afternoon and driven off into Montreal’s rush hour traffic with William in tow. They had left the downtown area via the Ville-Marie Expressway to Décarie northbound then west on AutoRoute 40 to McCall’s destination, the Galeries des Sources shopping mall. There, he had parked and, to William’s surprise, climbed into a black Ford Explorer and driven off again, heading north and west. Some twenty minutes later, as the sun was setting for the day, McCall had reached a ten storey condominium building by the river in Pierrefonds where he had parked in the outside lot but remained in the vehicle.

  An hour later, near seven-thirty, an elderly though obviously fit man had suddenly burst out of the building’s main entrance and sprinted to the parking lot. McCall, clearly on cue, had rushed forward with the Explorer, screeching to a halt only long enough for the old man to climb in before racing out of the lot. Approaching traffic had prevented William from immediately engaging in pursuit and, by the time he had succeeded in driving out from a lot across the street, the Explorer had disappeared from view.

  With nothing to lose, he had hurried back to the mall where McCall had switched vehicles earlier and had actually managed to arrive a minute or so before the Explorer had rolled up and parked near the Range Rover. As the two men had climbed out of the vehicle, William had been surprised to note the passenger was no longer the elderly fellow, but rather, the man he knew as Bob. The duo had strolled into Jack Astor’s Bar & Grill, leaving William to wait once again during which time an unknown man had shown up and driven off with the Explorer.

  McCall had left the restaurant after an hour or so, retrieved the Range Rover and headed west on AutoRoute 40. William had once again followed, hopeful that by this time, the ex-cop was on his way home. They had driven off the island, continuing on for a few minutes and were now approaching the exit for St-Lazare and Hudson when the Range Rover’s right turn indicator began to blink, announcing they were getting off the highway.

  William eased on the accelerator, adding some distance between himself and McCall. The Range Rover accessed the ramp and William did likewise a moment later, his eyes fixed on the lone vehicle ahead. The brakes lights of McCall’s SUV came on as he neared Côte Saint Charles, the only intersection on this short strip of service road. The right turn indicator blinked again – they would be heading to Hudson.

  The Range Rover stopped then turned, moving off into the darkness as William approached the intersection. He was familiar with the area, or had been nine years earlier and, unless things had since changed, the first stretch of Côte Saint Charles up to Harwood was rather deserted, bordered by farm fields, wooded areas and only the occasional home, well off the road.

  “Why the hell not?” William murmured, rounding the corner and stomping down on the accelerator.

  * * * *

  McCall mulled over the evening’s events as he cruised along Côte Saint Charles, pleased the team had successfully completed yet another mission. He smiled as he considered how his perspective on fighting crime had changed over the years – once a by-the-book cop, ethical almost to a fault and now, completing his second year as a member of an officially, though confidentially, sanctioned hit team.

  The change had come gradually, influenced by growing frustration as guilty parties he and others worked so hard to bring to justice ended up beating the system and going free to pursue their criminal activities. Having close friends like Chris and Jonathan, who dealt with such parties according to a whole different set of rules had certainly influenced him as well.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed headlights rapidly approaching from behind, some reckless driver putting his or her life, and that of others, in danger for the sake of saving a couple of minutes.

  “Asshole,” muttered Dave as the other vehicle, a large SUV, crossed the solid line into the oncoming lane and began to pass him.

  As the silver Tahoe pulled abreast of him, he lessened his speed to allow it to pass more quickly but, to his dismay and annoyance, the other driver also slowed, remaining to his left.

  “What the hell?” Dave growled, leaning on the horn.

  In response, the Tahoe suddenly veered right, solidly slamming into the Range Rover. Dave hit the brakes and struggled with the steering wheel, but in vain, as his right wheels found the edge of the ditch. Still on its forward momentum, the Rover rolled to its
side as it rocketed into the depression. Dave’s last recollection was of airbags exploding all around him when his vehicle came to an abrupt halt as it smashed into a large maple.

  Chapter 8 – Tuesday, October 6, 2015

  Lakeshore General Hospital, Pointe-Claire, Quebec, 8:07 a.m.

  “Oh, Cathy,” cried Sandy Barry, hugging Dave’s wife as she entered the hospital room with Chris at her heels. “How are you doing?”

  “Tired but okay,” Cathy replied, her eyes brimming with tears as Chris leaned in to peck her on the cheek.

  “What about me?” Dave asked from the bed, sporting a grin on his bruised and scratched face.

  “You were prettier the last time I saw you,” Chris replied, moving to the side of the bed. “Are you hurting much?”

  “Not right now,” said Dave with a slight, stiff head gesture toward the IV tree. “They mix a mean cocktail here.”

  “Any word on what the damage is?” asked Chris.

  “Slight concussion,” Dave began. “Face got banged up a bit with the airbags. Wrenched my right shoulder but there’s no ligament damage. A couple of cracked ribs and a pretty nasty cut on my left calf that needed some stitches. It could have been a lot worse and the doctors told us I should heal up fine without any permanent damage.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” said Chris, squeezing Dave’s good shoulder while Sandy hugged Cathy again. “Do you know how long you’ll be here?”

  “I’m hoping they let me go home today,” Dave replied. “I’ll be more comfortable there and Cathy needs to get some sleep.”

  “Never mind me,” Cathy interjected. “The doctor said at least twenty-four hours under observation for the concussion and they aren’t going to release you in the middle of the night. I want you to stay at least until tomorrow so we’re sure you’re okay.”